Let the Tears Fall
by Neko Kuroban
Summary: Vincent's relationship with Lucrecia was not the fairy tale he would have liked to believe. Vincent/Lucrecia/Hojo.


A/N: Because in pre-game fics Vincent is always portrayed like a boyfriend out of a crappy romance novel, and in the game he mentions that Lucrecia was beautiful one too many times. And because Lucrecia's always portrayed as a victim or a string-pulling bitch. 

Vincent fans, read at your own discretion. Fans of victimized-by-Hojo-, or perfect-Lucrecia  (or, God forbid, both) I laugh at you. Loudly. Lucrecia is not my favorite character, and I like her better with Hojo (long story that I'm too lazy to share) but even I like my portrayal of her here. 

Dedicated, with much sisterly-ish love, to Chibikan, who stood by me in this endeavor, and agrees with me that Crane has got it bad for Rosethorn in the Circle of Magic books. And to Kristin, who doesn't think I talk too much, and doesn't get mad when I write while we're supposed to be discussing the theme of the novel in our groups. ^_^ 

Perfect World

Vincent Valentine mounted the old, worn wooden stairs in silence. He liked silence. It allowed him to think, gave him time to reflect. He enjoyed the rare times he was able to sit in silence with Lucrecia. Her pale face looked so lovely when she was lost in thought. 

In his left hand, he held a bouquet of thornless, white roses. He didn't want to give her red roses. They were too intense, too vivacious. They were too passionate and overwhelming, with their full, scarlet petals and healthy viridian stems. And, unlike the ones in his hand, most of them had thorns. They were too strong for Lucrecia. 

Or rather, they were too strong for the Lucrecia he wanted. The brunette was too strong - or rather she thought she was. Her pale, hazel eyes were both sharp and bright - like a knife - behind her glasses. She was too smart, and she knew it. The only part of her he wanted was the gentle and pure side. That was all that he wanted. She could be soft and refined at times, why couldn't she stay that way?

He pushed open the cold metal door labeled simply '6', and stopped at the second door to the right. He retrieved from his pocket the key - the key that she had given him, saying simply that she trusted him enough to let himself in - and slipped it into the old lock. The door squeaked loudly as he opened it, and Vincent flinched at the shrill noise as it grated upon his senses. He must have been losing his touch, normally the Turk moved soundlessly, cloaked in the silence he adored. 

He nearly winced as he entered the young woman's cramped apartment and flipped on the light switch, causing the overhead lights to snap on. The door opened into the kitchen/dining/living room area, which, as usual, looked as if it had been ransacked. Dirty dishes were piled in the sink, the curtains of the rooms sole window drawn tightly against the city light. Several dirty coffee cups in varying colors - a few half-filled with ice-cold coffee, nearly all of them stained inside with dried remnants of the liquid - were sitting on the counter. 

She was obviously home - he could hear the shower running, and her keys were tossed carelessly on the table, along with her purse. Her clean, starched white lab coat was slung over a kitchen chair, her spike-heeled pumps by the small, worn beige sofa, along with the panty hose he knew she had whipped off as soon as she got home. The rest of her clothing - her knee-length black skirt with the thin gray pinstripes, her cotton blouse, and under things - formed a trail into the bathroom. The radio on the small shelf above the television was playing the loud tunes of a quick, upbeat song that seemed popular with females - Vincent had heard some scrawny teenage girl in a short skirt singing it on the train he had taken across town after work, barely ten minutes ago.

Vincent frowned at the tiny radio as he turned the thing off. He nearly smiled at the almost silence, that was ruined only by the sound of rushing water.

The water stopped abruptly, and Vincent settled into the couch. He began to glance around tiredly. Lucrecia had an entire two bookcases filled with heavy tomes of astronomy and languages, encyclopedias, thick volumes of genetics and medical journals, yet resting on the low coffee table were magazines with titles like 'Glamour' and 'Starlet', the covers bearing beautiful people overlaid with text, '_256 reasons to be happy!_' '_Ten Ways to Drive Him Wild_' '_Twelve Make-Up Tips._'

He focused on the last one. Make up. He hoped Lucrecia was not wearing any, except on the freckles across the bridge of her nose. They stood out too sharply against her perfect China doll complexion. They represented her imperfections, like the fact that she was slightly too thin, the fact that her lips weren't perfectly soft, that her hair wasn't long and wavy. Vincent did not love her imperfections.

Focusing didn't help. Before his eyes, the letters spun. He smelt faintly of cheap booze and cigarette smoke – less than an hour ago, his co-workers had dragged him to a seedy bar, and forced him to buy a drink to complete their successful mission. He hadn't had enough to actually become inebriated - he wasn't acting drunk, that he was almost certain of - but it made his head and eyes hurt all the more, and closing his eyes only made it worse. So he looked around the almost-familiar room - this was the first time he had let himself in, but he had been over before. 

The shadows of a smirk twisted Vincent's pale lips upward; she had played hard to get for so long, she had resisted his advances, but now that he had finally won the beautiful Lucrecia Foster - one day, he had long ago vowed she would one day be Mrs. Vincent Valentine - over, he was never going to let her go unless she was going to be happier. 

She was so cold sometimes. Sure, she was vibrant and quirky, in her own way, enough to keep her from burning out, and was optimistic and determined about her work... Lucrecia was  sometimes, like her coworker Doctor Ethan Hojo, determined to the point of recklessness. But still, she remained slightly distant to the Turk. She offered her friendship, her easy smile, but she did not hold her heart on the line. 

Vincent did not want her friendship, nor her smile. He wanted her heart. He wanted to know the contours of her narrow body, he wanted to feel her lips melding against his. He wanted to be the one to make her happy. He wanted to be loved only by her. She couldn't love anyone else. He wasn't sure he could **let** her love anyone else.

Suddenly, the bathroom door opened, letting a cloud of steam weave into the living room area. Lucrecia walked out, running a brush through her damp, sharply-parted brown hair. Vincent always wondered what her hair would feel like had she not restrained it. He always wondered what her thick tresses would look like if she allowed them to grow past her collarbone. But she never did. 

She must have remembered that he mentioned she was coming over, she had obviously brought clothes into the bathroom with her, and was already dressed in a pair of loose-fitting black shorts and an oversized crimson tee shirt. Why was she wearing red? Vincent hated red. She should know that. The color of freshly-spilt blood did not suit _his Lucrecia_. 

Suit her or not, any observer other than Vincent Valentine would have noticed that the bright hue _did_ become her. The color overshadowed the light freckles that dusted her sharp features, made her auburn hair stand out and leant a rosy hue to her pale skin. 

"Hello, Vincent," She called, her voice not quite matching her purple under eye circles, as she crossed the hard-wood floor, and grabbed her silver-rimmed glasses off the coffee table, jamming them quickly onto her narrow nose. She flushed slightly, realizing what he was looking at, and quickly gathered the magazines and newspapers scattered, fixing it so that 'Time' was on top. 

"These are for you." Her boyfriend grunted, trying to make it sound as if he didn't care, and held them out. But he did care, he cared almost enough for it to hurt. Vincent quietly waited for her response. In a perfect world – in his perfect world where she 'Mrs. Vincent Valentine' (not Lucrecia Foster, nor Mrs. _Lucrecia_ Valentine, mind you) and she _didn't_ work, and she let him provide for her, she would smile brilliantly, tears of joy gathering in her eyes, and kiss him – chastely - on the lips, thanking him for the white roses, because they were her favorite.

"Oh," She only smiled, though it might have come out a grimace in anyone else's eyes, Vincent did not dare look too closely, and accepted the roses. "Thanks." She mumbled and wandered the few steps needed into the kitchen. Kneeling on the blue and white linoleum that had not been cleaned in a long time – a floor that would have been spotless in his perfect world, Vincent hated disorder – she retrieved the clear glass vase he had given her for her last birthday; the same glass vase that she had been uncharacteristically silent at. She filled it slowly with tap water, and placed the flowers in the crisp aqua.

"You don't like them." Vincent had gotten off the couch, and was now standing behind her. 

"No! I do…" She insisted quickly, as she pulled a rubber band off the drawer handle and began to pull her damp hair up, "It's just…" 

"Leave it down." He ordered.

She looked briefly perplexed, an expression Vincent reveled in. Bewilderment was something rare for her. "Keep what down?"

"Your hair. I like your hair better when it is down."

That same weary, tight smile, "I can't. I play with it too much if it's down." 

He sighed inwardly, she looked so much softer, so much more perfect with her hair down. He loved that softness, that perfection.

It was a strange thing to notice at the time, but he suddenly realized that her bookcases were filled completely with books, there were no knickknacks, no framed photographs, there was no pointless clutter on the shelves. In fact, beside her almost artful untidiness, there was little ornamentation in the apartment, the only things hanging on the walls were the framed degrees and awards she was so proud of.

She exhaled, softly but audibly, leaning over the counter, pressing her fingertips to her temples. They stood in silence, silence he adored for a long while. Then, it was broken.

"Sorry about the mess," Lucrecia apologized, her voice slightly muffled as she faced away from him. "I've been under a lot of stress at work. I haven't had time to clean."

"You should quit."

"What?" Her head snapped up, and she jerked around to face him rapidly, as if she were startled and afraid. 

His sore eyes burned because of her, the dark painful spots in his mind worsened. "You could quit." He was speaking in soft, non-aggressive tones. He didn't realized it, but he was talking the way he would to a small, frightened child he had been assigned to eliminate on a mission. "We could get married. You wouldn't have to work."

Her eyes showed a sudden alarm, and she stepped back, closer to the counter. "I couldn't not work and… marriage? Vincent … you're not the … I'm just not ready … for … that." 

  
Why wouldn't she have her hair down for him? Why wouldn't she give up her stressful day job? Why wouldn't she agree to spend the rest of her life with him?  Why wouldn't she give him the reaction he wanted?

He wanted a reaction that worked in his favor. The Turk had killed three people today, three people who had nothing to do with him, or his private life, yet he had killed them as part of his job. He needed comfort and a release. And he needed Lucrecia to give it to him.

He grabbed both her thin wrists with one of his calloused hands – he used his right hand even though he was left-handed - and pinned her roughly between his body and the counter. Vincent waited for her to gasp and cry out his name, scream that he was hurting her. Her heartbeat quickened, her silver glasses – the old frames she had had for ages, a bit tarnished from the years – slipped down her nose and her breathing became shallower, but she didn't gasp. 

He tightened his grip, so tight that he knew she would carry purple bruises on her wrists the next day. "I killed innocent people today, Lucrecia." He whispered, letting his grip slack, "I want to forget. I did not have a say in their death." She only stared silently back, hazel eyes unblinkingly bright behind her glasses, reminding him of death. "You think often. Do you think you can help me forget this pain?" He bent down – she was nearly a head shorter than him - and kissed the woman he loved, pressing his lips against hers for a long moment.

She did not soften her lips, nor did she offer embrace. Vincent kissed her again, without the result. 

"Why won't you help me?" He asked desperately, gripping her shoulders. His nails dug through the thin cotton.

"You chose to kill them, Vincent." She sighed, her eyes closed, unflinching at the pain. "I could lie and tell you that it wasn't your fault, but in truth…" She opened her eyes slowly, blinking like an infant taking its first glances in the sunlight. "You could have left the assassination to one of your teammates."

He kept offering her heaven, but she wasn't accepting. He wanted her to be soft, he wanted her to be perfect. She could cry for him. She ought to cry for him. The more he thought, the more right the idea seemed. She would look beautiful with diamond tears rolling down her pale cheeks…

If he needed to, he would _make_ her cry.

Before Vincent knew what had happened, his left hand had reared back and struck her soundly across the face, leaving a large, horrible red mark across her cheek. Her glasses fell off, with the force of the impact, shattering into pieces on the filthy linoleum floor. Vincent gasped, out loud this time, "Sorry." He apologized quickly, as he always did when an apology was necessary.

"Get out." Lucrecia ordered, breathing heavily as she clutched her right cheek.

Stammering another apology, his calm demeanor gone, Vincent complied, slamming the door behind him. He stared weakly at his left hand. "Oh God… I'm a monster…" Yet he still wanted her comfort, and that, scared him.

Inside, Lucrecia stood in the same spot, hand still on her cheek, before she crossed to the freezer for ice. Tears had gathered in her eyes, but she never let them fall. Not anymore. 

As the young woman wrapped the ice cubes in a tea towel, she couldn't help thinking that if it had only been the first time Vincent touched her in such a way, she might have taken him up on his offer of marriage. 

And she would have let the tears fall.


End file.
